Hannah opened the door for her, and she nodded a greeting to the old woman before crossing the foyer to turn right down the wide corridor that led to the library. Beyond the French doors and the terrace outside, she could see Tracy and three of her friends playing tennis.
Beth was nowhere to be seen.
She dropped her purse on a table, and glanced at the fireplace, where—as always—a fire was laid, ready to be lit. For a moment she was tempted to put a match to it, despite the warmth of the day. But warming the room even further would do nothing to alleviate the chill that was emanating from Abigail.
“It won’t help,” Abigail said as she entered the room, apparently reading Carolyn’s mind. Then, stripping off her gloves and expertly removing the pin from her veiled hat, she turned to her son. “I don’t think there can be any question now of continuing with your project. We shall order Mr. Rogers to begin closing the mill tomorrow.”
Phillip’s brows rose a fraction of an inch, and his arms folded over his chest. He leaned back against the desk that had once been his father’s. “Indeed?” he asked. “And when did it become my project, Mother? Until yesterday, it was our project, unless I’m suddenly getting senile.”
Abigail’s sharp eyes raked over her son, and her lips curved into a tightly cynical smile. “If that remark was intended to suggest that I’m losing my grip, I don’t appreciate it. I’ve simply changed my mind, and in light of what happened to Jeff Bailey—”
“What happened to Jeff Bailey was an accident, Mother. We’ve seen the reports, and there’s nothing to suggest there was anything more to it than the simple facts. He tripped, and fell on a pick. That’s that.”
“He tripped and fell on a tool on the precise spot where your brother tripped and fell on a tool. Don’t you consider that a bit more than a coincidence?”
“No, Mother, I don’t,” Phillip replied, his voice and manner clearly indicating that his mind was made up on the subject.
But Abigail was not about to give in so easily. “I’m sorry you can’t see that which is perfectly clear,” she went on. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I shall speak to Mr. Rogers myself.”
“Will you?” Phillip asked. There was a hardness in his tone that neither Carolyn nor Abigail had ever before heard. Carolyn gazed curiously at her husband, while Abigail’s eyes suddenly ‘dickered with uncertainty. “You may certainly speak to Alan if you wish, but I hope you understand that he won’t act on your orders. He’s working for me, not for you.”
The uncertainty vanished from Abigail’s eyes. She regarded her son with undisguised fury. “You?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her contempt. “Working for you? How dare you suggest that my wishes will not be obeyed. Particularly when all I am doing is seeing to it that your father’s own wishes are honored.”
“Enough, Mother,” Phillip said, his voice suddenly sounding tired. “You might be able to buffalo everyone else that way, but it won’t work with me. I’ve read Father’s will. He left me in charge of all Sturgess business enterprises, and it is my decision to go ahead with the mill project. If you want to give in to Father’s superstitions, that’s up to you. But don’t expect me to go along with them.”
“Your brother’s memory should mean something to you,” Abigail flared.
But Phillip only shook his head. “My brother’s memory?” he repeated. “Mother, I wasn’t even born until a year after Conrad Junior died. And I wouldn’t have been born at all if he hadn’t died.”
Abigail, looking as if she’d been struck, sank into one of the wing chairs. “Phillip—that isn’t true!”
“Isn’t it?” Phillip demanded. “I’m not a fool, Mother. Don’t you think I know that I was nothing more than a replacement for Conrad? God knows, you and Father certainly never let me forget it. I grew up being compared to a brother I never even met! And now you want me to close down the restoration of the mill, simply because there have been two accidents there in the space of forty years? Well, you can forget it, Mother. What you choose to do is your own decision, but I won’t be bound by Father’s superstitions.”
Abigail sat coiled in her chair like a serpent ready to strike. “I’ll stop you,” she hissed. “I’ll use everything in my power to stop you from finishing that